July 15: Until I Am Dead, Metaphysical, Human Connection

Santiago is alone . . . 

But you haven't got the boy, he thought. You have only yourself and you had better work back to the last line now, in the dark or not in the dark, and cut it away and hook up the two reserve coils.

So he did it. It was difficult in the dark and once the fish made a surge that pulled him down on his face and made a cut below his eye. The blood ran down his cheek a little way. But it coagulated and dried before it reached his chin and he worked his way back to the bow and rested against the wood. He adjusted the sack and carefully worked the line so that it came across a new part of his shoulders and, holding it anchored with his shoulders, he carefully felt the pull of the fish and then felt with his hand the progress of the skiff through the water.

I wonder what he made that lurch for, he thought. The wire must have slipped on the great hill of his back. Certainly his back cannot feel as badly as mine does. But he cannot pull this skiff forever, no matter how great he is. Now everything is cleared away that might make trouble and I have a big reserve of line; all that a man can ask.

"Fish," he said softly, aloud, "I'll stay with you until I am dead."

There are times when a person really feels isolated.  For Santiago, it happens in these four paragraphs.  For a while, he's been aware of his physical isolation:  floating by himself in a boat in the middle of the sea with no land in sight.  Yet, feeling alone is more than just the lack of proximity to other people.  Santiago's isolation is metaphysical.

You can be in a crowded party with throngs of drunken friends and be alone.  Or in bed with your sleeping partner.  You can be alone in a family of nine siblings.  I've stood at a podium in a classroom, lectured for three hours with 35 pairs of eyes watching somewhat attentively, and felt completely alone.  

Real human connection is a shared feeling of hope or despair or joy or anger.  It's knowing that another soul somewhere out there understands exactly what you are going through.  That may sound corny.  Perhaps it is.  But, if you've experienced true aloneness, you understand what I'm talking about.  

This week, I was listening to music at a concert and found myself blinking away tears.  I had to pull my car over to the side of the road on my way home from work one night because the sky reminded me of the day my sister died.  This morning, I was reading a book at 2 a.m. because the author is an old friend from college, and I could hear his voice in the words on the page.

That's where I am right now.  Have been since last Sunday.  Drifting in my little boat.  No land in sight.  Trying to feel connected.

Saint Marty's blessing for today:  a short visit with his daughter, who kissed his cheek before she left, whispered in his ear, "I love you, Daddy."